


making contact

by JuicyWizard (orphan_account)



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, Rough Sex, Stalking, Violence, the blood isn't sexy tho dw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8990719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/JuicyWizard
Summary: takes place after the adventure. magnus is struggling with everyone having gone their separate ways, and seeing the ghost of jerkwads past just pisses him off.





	

  


Magnus was used to being lonely.

 

It had been something like this before his life’s big adventure. The days, weeks, months blending together, like he was on a fantasy conveyor belt to some unknown end.

 

He tried his best to differentiate this, his triumphant retirement, from the desperate, destructive time before he had met Taako and Merle.

 

He bought a cabin in the woods on the outskirts of Neverwinter. He started crafting and fixing furniture at his own little carpentry stall at the weekly market. He adopted every stray dog he saw.

 

But where his days weren’t punctuated by a visit to Taako and Kravitz, or Merle and his kids, or Angus at the university, he was left with a dull, aching, and terrifyingly familiar longing.

 

It’s not that he wanted someone new to be what Julia had been to him. Nobody could ever take her place. He knew that. His heart was a rope cut short, with twine too frail to plait again. He wouldn’t find love again, and didn’t want to.

 

What he did want was, to Magnus, slightly less insolent, but way more pathetic.

 

Magnus needed to be held.

 

Not in the way that his family held him. Not a cackling, bruisingly bony squeeze from Taako, or a gruff, half-plant hug from Merle, or the running leap into his arms that Angus loved so much.

 

His tired, heavy hands wanted to cling to someone who belonged there, and only there. Who didn’t have to go back to their undead husband, or their beach cottage, or their detective work. It was selfish, and barely a fully formed thought, but he deeply desired the indefinite, comforting, (and it embarrassed him to admit it, but god, _lustful_ ) embrace of someone who would be there in the morning, and not have to leave to go back to some other life that he wasn’t a part of.

 

Before he had worked this all out and resigned himself to his current frustration, he had tried dating. Meeting people on Fantasy OKCupid, meeting up in taverns to chat. This exercise came to an abrupt end after he worked up the resolve to kiss one particularly charming date goodnight.

 

He spent the rest of the evening sobbing; guilt burning in his stomach like a fucking ulcer.

 

So, on went the conveyor-belt of days. He tried his best to squash his desire under his work. It helped not to think about it. Some days were easy - someone would bring in a truly unique, usually antique, piece of furniture and Magnus would have to Solve Their Wood Puzzle in order to fix it, or stain it, or do whatever had to be done to it. Or, his _favorit_ e, someone would come with nothing but a dream (well, a dream and a fair share of gold) and he would get to create something new for them.

 

There were other distractions to be had - taking care of his dogs, taking hikes in the expansive woods surrounding his property, planning his visits to the other Tres Horny Boys.

 

But there was one perplexity that always consumed his thoughts completely. These moments were brief, just a flicker. The first few times, he wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

 

Eventually, it turned into a bit of a game for Magnus. He found himself scanning the crowd at the market. Going into town on non-market days, for frivolous reasons, wondering if today there might finally be a confrontation. He played with the idea of making up a plan, wrung the thought dry in his mind, reminding himself that it wasn’t his style. Forbade himself from playing the theoretical conversation out in his head for the hundredth time.

 

This was probably the most thinking-without-acting he had done in his life, but it’s what he desperately needed. So much so that despite the anger that boiled in his throat at the sight of this man, he didn’t want to ever have to actually punch his lights out. He was more than content to have this abstract object of contempt at arms length. Someone to just fucking **_hate_ ** without inhibition, obsessively, for hours on end.

 

And shit, did he hate Lucas Miller.

 

* * *

 

 

At this point, he was sure Lucas had seen him too. He thought, the last time he saw him, that Lucas’ beady, bloodshot eyes had been looking right at him. That for a second their gaze met and behind his broken, smudged glasses, the coward _knew_. But just as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, back into the bustling crowd.

 

He remembered (often) Lucas’ pleading words that Magnus not kill him on sight, that the next time they met he would be “doing good”. Magnus scoffed to himself.

 

Every time he spotted Lucas, he looked terrible. Bags under his eyes, bruises all over, his clothes and hair a mess. But above all else, he looked like he was completely lost. Wandering the streets like a ghost, which he technically sort of was.

 

It was not the look of someone who felt they were “doing good”.

 

Magnus would know.

 

* * *

 

He had been thinking lately on what he would make for Angus, to congratulate him on his job at the college. There were so many options - a professor’s office needed lots of furniture, and maybe Magnus would just build it all. He was so proud of the THB’s little boy that it didn’t seem like too much in the least. In fact, was it enough?

 

He mulled it over as he covertly followed Lucas home. By now, the pretense was unnecessary. Magnus knew the address. He would sometimes sit outside the dingy pub across the street, watching Lucas’ balcony. It was easy to locate - covered in rusted robot parts and long-dried, forgotten laundry that still didn’t look clean. He never once saw Lucas out on it, but sometimes, through the threadbare curtains he saw a silhouette. Once he thought he saw two, and wondered who Lucas could possibly have over, among the the mountains of trash and dirty dishes that undoubtedly littered his place.

 

As he heard Lucas close the door to his floor a few flights up, Magnus started up the stairs. Even this wasn’t daring. Countless times Magnus had found himself (sometimes late at night, or early in the morning, drunk on mead from that same dingy pub) staring at Lucas’ door from across the long hall. The doors of his neighbors had nameplates, welcome mats, but not Lucas. Magnus was used to the sight of the plain door, the brass apartment number, the broken knocker.

 

That’s not what he saw today.

 

Today, the door was open.

 

Not just slightly ajar, as if Lucas had not cared to close it, which wouldn’t be surprising. It was wide open.

 

With a jolt to that old reflex that sent him headlong into near-suicidal battles, Magnus found himself striding down the hall. It was chilly today, the type of autumn that was practically winter. He wouldn’t leave the door open unl-

 

Before Magnus can finish the thought, he’s inside Lucas’ apartment. _Inside the apartment_. He doesn’t even get to look around before hearing a petulant little clearing of the throat that makes him whip his head to the left.

 

There, in what seemed to be a kitchen once, sat Lucas, on a poorly made chair, clumsily kicking his shoes off, not even looking up.

 

“Are we going to get this over with, or what?”

 

He frees his his foot, revealing a horrendously old-looking, moth-eaten sock, and finally raises his eyes to Magnus. His expression is bored; unimpressed, and yet with the trace of an absolutely infuriating smirk at the edge of his lips. Lucas looks tired, and frail as ever, but Magnus felt as if he had walked into some sort of trap. Magnus’ mouth moves, but words don’t come out - whatever is there is strangled angrily in his throat.

 

Lucas snorts, and tosses his shoes to the side.

 

_“Nice._ ”

 

Magnus boggles, realizing that Lucas, of all fucking people, is scoffing at him. Before he can retort, Lucas continues.

 

“I’ll help you out - were you going to kill me, or just beat me to a pulp?”

 

He drifts back in his chair, sloppily leaning over his elbow on the kitchen table beside him. This pose pushes some unopened mail from the pile of detritus on the table to the floor. Lucas doesn’t seem to care. All of this; the mess, his nonchalance, makes Magnus’ fists squeeze tighter.

 

“You knew I was following you.” Magnus growls.

 

“You aren’t exactly Fantasy James Bond, Magnus.”

 

With that, Magnus takes one large step forward, and swiftly kicks Lucas in the gut, sending both him and his shitty chair tumbling backwards to the ground. For a moment, Lucas retches, wind knocked out of him, but quickly recovers to sneer at the big lug who is now standing directly over him.

 

“There we go.” Lucas’ breath hitching as he speaks. For once, Magnus is trying not to think. Just leering down at this sad, excruciatingly annoying excuse for a scientist, splayed helplessly between Magnus’ massive boots.

 

“No begging for your life this time?”

 

“Do you want me to beg?” Lucas says with a lilt in his voice that makes Magnus’ stomach instinctively turn, but he doesn’t get to think about it for too long.

 

“I deserve it. I deserved it back then, too.” With this, Lucas grins. He grins, and it’s fucking terrifying, for reasons Magnus doesn’t understand. What’s changed for Lucas Miller, who previously fucking _cried_ in his grasp, trying to wriggle free to save himself from harm he most certainly did deserve?

 

Magnus wants to bend down, lift Lucas by the collar, like he did back in the lab. Or maybe just to raise his boot and bring down on his chest, hard. He wants Lucas whimpering _“Please, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me”_ , in the desperate tenor that Magnus’s mind had lately taken to summoning up at the most inopportune times--

 

Magnus shakes his head, closing his eyes. He rubs the space between his brows and backs away from Lucas, still laying on the kitchen floor.

 

He extends a hand. Lucas’ grin vanishes.

 

He swats Magnus away, and pushes himself to his feet, leaving the chair where it is. He crosses his arms, eyebrows raised expectantly.

 

Magnus avoids his eyes, finally getting a good look around the room. It’s a small studio apartment, indeed covered with all manner of debris, just as his quarters in the lab had been. Maybe nothing had really changed for Lucas. Maybe it was Magnus who changed.

 

He sighs, and turns back to Lucas, who looks as douchey as ever and hasn’t budged an inch.

 

“Have you been, uh, “doing good?””

 

“No.”

 

Lucas replies far too quickly, impatiently even, obviously without even having thought about it. Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe, like Magnus, Lucas had, at some point, honestly tried to do good. Tried, and failed, and resigned most of his energy to just fucking getting out of bed in the morning.

 

Not that it mattered. Magnus wasn’t going to feel fucking bad for this selfish idiot who had left him and his friends to die. He already spared him in a myriad of ways. His generosity towards Lucas had run out before it even began.

 

Where Lucas was casual, impertinent before, he’s now stiff, and closed off, almost _disappointed_ that Magnus hasn’t started a fight with him. In the thick silence between them, Magnus rolls his eyes, and starts back towards the still-open door. This is pointless.

 

He’s nearly gone when Lucas’s shrill, quick voice snarks from behind him.

 

“Wait, _seriously?_ What happened to all that big talk?” Lucas deepens his voice, comically imitating Magnus, “If I ever see you again--”

 

“Lucas, is there something you _want_ to happen here?” Magnus snaps, looking over his shoulder, halfway out the door. He narrows his eyes, honestly fucking curious.

 

Lucas shrugs. “I thought _you_ wanted to like, punish me for daring to live in the same city as you or whatever.” Now it’s Lucas who’s avoiding eye contact. Why does it seem like he’s lying?

 

Magnus’ face twists in vague confusion. “I mean… look, you’re still a dick, and I hate you, but I’m not...that guy.” _Magnus Burnsides is not a bully,_ he thinks to himself, reminding himself.

 

“It really was just talk, I guess.”

 

Magnus lingers in the doorframe. He watches Lucas’ eyes flit around the room, everywhere except to meet his own. Casual to closed off to… nervous? Impatient? Magnus was pretty good with people - being rustically hospitable, and all - but Lucas absolutely resisted being read. Another aggravating feature of this horrible little man.

 

That thick, dull silence settles between them once again. Magnus has had enough of this.

 

“Well, if that’s all...” Magnus waits a moment, and just as he turns his head --

 

“Wait. _Ugh--_ ”

 

Magnus turns again, for what feels like the millionth time, and sees Lucas glance up at the ceiling, looking frustrated.

 

“Are you..busy?” Lucas spits the words out with effort, as if he’s cussing at him. Magnus can’t believe what he’s hearing.

 

“....No?”

 

His curiosity is intoxicating right now. What could Lucas possibly want from him? What could he fucking dare to ask Magnus for, after what Magnus has already given him, and after he repeatedly violated Magnus’ one simple fucking request to stay out of his life and--

 

“If you want to like, stick around, for an hour or something…”

 

“You want to… what, _hang out_ ? Are you _joking_?”

 

“Jesus, you’re dense! Magnus-”

 

Lucas strides over to his bed, and rips the single, sad blanket off. With it goes the bowls and papers and various half-built robot pieces that previously lay strewn about. Magnus is pretty sure some of those dishes shattered in this motion but Lucas stands in front of his bare mattress and what comes out of his wry, twisted, mouth, along with that awful, piercing glare makes Magnus forget to breath for a second.

 

“...I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”

 

“I -- excuse me?”

 

“You heard me.” Lucas starts to unbutton his shirt, and turns his back to Magnus.

 

“Yeah I heard you, but I don’t-- what does that even--”

 

As Magnus sputters helplessly, Lucas shrugs his shirt off. His slender back is covered in bruises, and Magnus now notices that sprinkled among them are also bite marks, hickies--

 

Lucas, looking over his shoulder, sees Magnus staring and grins that same _horrible_ grin.

 

“You want to punch me? _Choke me?_ Go ahead.”

 

“I don’t--”

 

“You don’t _want_ to? We both know that’s a _fucking lie_ , Magnus.”

 

_Was it?_ Magnus goes numb.

 

Lucas sits on his mattress, leaning back, his composure once again that of smug, aggravating indifference. Magnus notices his chest is, like his back, covered in violent marks of all sorts.

 

His limbs are stiff, frozen in confusion… but Magnus feels a painfully heated shiver deep in his gut.

 

He ignores it.

 

“You _know_ it would feel good to hurt me. I put you and your friends in danger, I betrayed your trust. I. Deserve. It.”

 

He lingers on his last few words, and Magnus is suddenly, reluctantly aware of Lucas’ tongue, as he quickly drags it across his thin upper lip.

 

Magnus feels two equally strong, similarly disgusting feelings well up in his chest:

 

**_One_ ** , that he wants to fucking backhand Lucas Miller’s obnoxious face. It _would_ feel good, and he’s fucking _asking for it_.

 

And yet, the desire for violence he promised himself was not in his character is somehow surpassed in its power to disturb by another, deeper, more sinister thought:

 

**_Two,_ ** that the expanse of bare skin in front of Magnus, which he knew would be warm, and smooth, and most likely soft (if not a bit bony) made him want nothing more than to lay his head against this gaunt stomach, wrap his arms around this absolute shitlord, and never let go.

 

And that’s what pushes him over the edge.

 

Suddenly, he’s across the room, having _slammed_ the door shut, and is kneeling on the mattress over Lucas, who he’s just punched in the face.

 

Lucas’ hand flies to his nose, which is bleeding. He lets out a lewd, nasally moan that Magnus fucking hates.

 

He hits him again.

 

“Fuck, _Magnus!_ ” Lucas sounds absolutely _delighted,_ and Magnus can feel the nerd’s awful, _awful_ boner through his pants, rubbing against Magnus’ thigh as he straddles him.

 

He tries not to think about the blood rushing through his own body, or the way his breath is heaving. He’s just angry. Angry at Lucas, angry at his own lack of control. He squeezes himself through his pants anyway. Y’know, _angrily._

 

Lucas watches him do it, and bites his lip hungrily. He hooks his thin fingers into Magnus’ belt loops and tugs on his pants.

 

“Take it out. I want to fucking choke on y-”

 

Magnus puts his hand over Lucas’ mouth - it’s big enough to cover most of the bottom half of Lucas’ face. Lucas’ eyes go wide as he thrills at the aggression. He moans, muffled, and leans his head back slightly, grinding against Magnus’ thigh.

 

What the hell is happening here? Are they fucking? Magnus’ thoughts are hazy, but shit does _that_ feel great. He’s so fucking sick of _clarity_ , of his life slipping through his fingers like cold water. He hates to admit it, but he wants this. This tangled, unwieldy emotion that he can’t even begin to wrestle with right now.

 

Magnus takes his hand, now covered in nasty-ass nose blood, and wipes it on his shirt. The visual is apparently great for Lucas, who smiles again, looking fucking idiotic with smudged blood all over his nose and mouth. Magnus scowls, tears off his shirt, and uses it to wipe this lowlife’s face. He catches Lucas eyeing his bare chest, which gives Magnus a small swell of pride in his own body that he _despises_ right now. He grabs Lucas by the shoulder and flips him over, pushing his face into the mattress, earning another muffled moan.

 

Lucas’ hands are already underneath himself, undoing his belt and zipper, and with one hand Magnus yanks the slacks down his thighs, and then leans back off the bed to pull them all the way off. He throws them, unnecessarily far across the room, as Lucas eagerly raises his hips, putting his damn ass in the air. Magnus wants to be disgusted at how fucking embarrassing Lucas is being, but honestly? The hot, wet strain in his jeans has him thinking otherwise.

 

He pushes some kind of overturned box out of the way of the nightstand, pulling the drawer open with a loud clunk. He digs around. Sure enough, there are condoms, a dildo, a fuckload of loose change, what looks like an empty snack size bag of Cheez-Its… Magnus huffs, frustrated.

 

“Where the fuck is your lube?”

 

Lucas lifts his head, from having been pressing it into the mattress of his own accord. (Fucking nastyboy.)

 

“Forget it. Just stick it in.” He grins again, and it’s still scary.

 

Magnus rolls his eyes, and opens the next drawer down. Bingo. He hears Lucas quietly groan, annoyed. Jackass.

 

He returns to his post behind Lucas, at the end of the bed. He sort-of half kneels with one knee on the mattress, and the other foot firmly on the ground, and pulls Lucas by the thighs closer to him. (Of course, he lets slip a nasally little gasp of approval.)

 

Magnus notes multiple sets of finger-tip size bruises up and down Lucas’ thighs and hips, and also the fact that Lucas already has a small hand between his legs, stroking himself impatiently. Magnus laughs a little - this is just so fucking much - as he fishes himself out of his jeans, and kicks them off.

 

Lucas turns (his bare shoulders and back twisting in a way that Magnus regrets to concede is actually _attractive..._ ) taking an unabashedly greedy look at Magnus’ cock. He smiles again (his mouth twisting in a way that Magnus is beginning to think might just be the way Lucas’ face is stuck) and looks up, meeting Magnus’ eyes.

 

“ _Thank fucking god._ ”

 

Magnus feels his cheeks go hot. He bends over to place a firm hand on the top of Lucas’ head, and turns it away. He thinks, briefly, that with the amount of bruises this kinky fucker has on him, that’s probably a pretty good compliment - but wait, what does he care? He shakes his head, finally squeezing some lube onto his fingers and easing inside Lucas, and the damned slutty scientist pushes back against him in a way that makes Magnus lightheaded.

 

* * *

 

Finally, Magnus is hammering his hips _hard_ into Lucas, as Lucas _screams_ into the hand Magnus has once again clapped over his face from behind. His other arm is looped under and around Lucas’ waist, pulling him as close as he can get him, Magnus _loving_ the heat of having another person close to him like this. He’s already awkwardly bent over Lucas’ back, pressing his chest into him as much as he can, but Magnus fucking wants _more._

 

So he takes it. He pulls out, quick, Lucas whining, and throws him further onto the bed, flipping him onto his back in the process. Lucas spreads his legs before he’s even fully settled into this new position, and Magnus quickly climbs after him, closing the space between them, and slowly (enough) slides back inside with a low, heavy moan from Lucas, who throws his head back.

 

_Thank god,_ Magnus thinks to himself, since he didn’t want to accidentally catch Lucas’ gaze at this moment. He takes the opportunity to press his chest flat against Lucas’, and hides his face in the crook of Lucas’ neck. He begins to nip at the soft skin there, and Lucas wraps his legs (as best he can) around his waist, bucking his own hips and moaning so loudly and terribly into every thrust.

 

“Your voice is so damn _annoying._ ” Magnus grunts, his breath hot in Lucas’ ear. Lucas turns his head, a smug (as smug as somebody so fucked silly can look) expression on his face, and it happens.

 

The nightmare scenario.

 

Magnus can’t stop himself from kissing Lucas.

 

_At least it isn’t a sweet kiss--,_ he thinks, before he shortly loses the ability to form a coherent thought. The hand caught in Lucas’ greasy, tangled hair pulls, hard, and the two suck at each other’s mouths with the softness and subtlety of two teenagers in the backseat of a battlewagon.

 

As if his own body _wants_ to fuck him over, it’s at this moment, with his tongue in Lucas’ mouth, that Magnus starts to feels the all-too-familiar urgent heat start to build in the base of his stomach.

 

He pulls away, quickly, sitting up and still and trying to will the moment to pass. Not now. Not like this.

 

The cold air that rushes against his chest does it, and he lets out a deep, relieved breath. Lucas squirms under him, whining disjointedly about the fact that Magnus stopped thrusting, fingertips at Magnus’ hips as if those skinny arms could pull him in. Magnus laughs, and Lucas glares at him, breathless, flopping back with his arms up, once again looking so, so, regrettably sexy.

 

“Hit me again.”

 

Magnus, breathing hard and collecting himself (making sure he isn’t going to lose it) smirks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“You really like that?”

 

Lucas looks at him, sans sleazy smile for once, and says, completely seriously,

 

“I _love_ it.”

 

He adjusts his hips impatiently; squeezing Magnus’ dick. Magnus feels the quiet swell of his body threatening to betray him again. And, with resolve, raises a hand.

 

Lucas’s grin returns.

 

“Hard, please.”

 

* * *

 

Magnus didn’t understand how a few smacks across the face had Lucas writhing under him, his thighs squeezing rhythmically at Magnus’s sides, his stomach and hand covered in his own jizz. Magnus fucks him hard through his orgasm, propped up on his elbows (his mouth a safe distance away from Lucas’) and soon enough he was cumming too. His low moan pitched into a shallow gasp -- it was kind of _intense._

 

Probably just because he like, accidentally edged himself. Yeah, that was it.

 

* * *

 

 

Pitching a final tissue into Lucas’ trash can (which was comically empty compared the rest of trash-covered room), Magnus began to pull his jeans up. Lucas lay splayed out on his still-bare mattress, a bruise blooming on his cheek, and a worrisomely blissful smile on his face.

 

Magnus resented the feeling of the cloud over his mind starting to clear. He was going to have think about what just happened eventually, and he was not looking forward to it.

 

He looked over at Lucas, the length of his assuredly warm, naked body, once again feeling that terrible, inexplicable emotion that kickstarted this whole thing.

 

Stop, Magnus.

 

You are not _cuddling_ with _Lucas Miller_.

 

He pulled the rest of his clothes on with such speed that it bordered on silly. As he laced up his first boot, Lucas sat up a bit in his bed, pulling the blanket from the floor over himself.

 

“Listen, I uh… know you come into town on market days” He lowers his voice a little snarkily, “and some other days too, so.”

 

Magnus turns to look at him, face blank.

 

“Stop by or whatever. If you want.”

 

Magnus doesn’t know how to answer, so he grunts gruffly, sticking his foot into his other boot.

 

* * *

 

Shutting the door behind him, he realizes he can see his breath in the air.

 

It's cold outside.

  
  
  



End file.
